Now Or Never
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: There is someone between you, in this bed." Second-person POV, from House's perspective. Takes off on a concept presented in recent episodes. Title graciously appropriated from Josh Groban's inspirational song. Warnings: features Amber. Please R&R!


Author's Note: The title for this story is borrowed from a beautiful song by Josh Groban that inspired the events of this story. Written in the oh-so-difficult second person POV from House's perspective (or is that to House's perspective? Meh), which I hope does not throw you off. Not exactly spoilery for recent episodes, but draws on ideas presented in them. Enjoy!

* * *

_I watch the morning dawn upon your skin  
A splinter in the light  
It caught and frayed the very heart of us  
It's been hiding there inside for all this time  
How a sure thing winds up just like this  
Clockwork silence only knows_There is someone between you, in this bed.

And it's no one's fault  
There's no black and white  
Only you and me  
On this endless night  
And as the hours run away  
With another life  
Oh, darling can't you see  
It's now or never

Sweeping eggshells still at 3 A.M.  
We're trying far too hard  
The tattered thought balloons above our heads  
Sinking in the weight of all we need to say  
Why's and what if's have since long played out  
Left us short on happy endings

And it's no one's fault  
There's no black and white  
Only you and me  
On this endless night  
And as the hours run away  
With another life  
Oh, darling can't you see  
It's now or never

You know that there's so much more

And it's no one's fault  
There's no black and white  
Only you and me  
On our final night  
And as the hours run away  
With another life  
Oh, darling can't you see  
It's now or never

(josh groban, now or never)

* * *

Wilson's skin is touched with shades of gold and rose, stripes of shadow from the blinds separating the sunset into bars of color along the linen-white of his skin. You should be asleep, as he is, but your eyelids refuse to droop; your brain decides not to shut down, presented with such an enticing sight.

Tonight is not the first time you have fucked him, but it is the first time since _her_. Wilson seemed content to moan your name—and yours alone—but _she_ was there, curled up in the wooden chair in the corner, her periwinkle eyes observing, critiquing, perhaps even longing. Now she stretches out between you, her ivory skin a shade lighter than his, her golden hair trailing over her shoulder blades and mischief dancing in her eyes. She shifts, and the limber length of her arm casts a shadow over Wilson's back, splintering the sunset light. You wince as the moment is broken.

For years, you denied the attraction between your best friend and yourself, as Wilson spectacularly shattered marriage after marriage in an attempt to get your attention and affection. When you figured it out, you kept your mouth shut; when you gave in, you did it in typical melodramatic fashion: you showed up at his apartment three weeks after being released from rehab with a dozen roses and a bottle of tequila. Wilson drank half the bottle of tequila and scratched his finger on a thorn; you sucked the blood from his skin and then lapped the taste of tequila from his mouth until he was pleading with you to use your mouth elsewhere. And, with a sarcastic quip and a tripping of your heart, you obeyed.

Somehow, both of you have always known it would end here. He is not your boyfriend, your roommate, or your life partner; you have had sex sixteen times, counting hand jobs and blow jobs and tremendous bouts of fucking. Being here is not the surprise; this was a sure thing. It is what lies between you that still blows your mind and makes you just a little pissed.

And what lies between you is, of course, unspoken love, copious amounts of denial, and one deliciously limber Cutthroat Bitch.

You turn away from him, and her, and listen to the monotonous ticking of the bedside clock. You can feel your heartbeat thudding in your chest, providing an arrhythmic counterpart, and begin composing a melody in your head around the awkward, limping pattern of beats and ticks. It can be your theme song, you think, and vow to scribble it down on composition paper in the morning, or maybe sometime next month.

No one planned for it to go this way. You know this, but it does not mean you are not resentful. Wilson reminded you once that he is capable of wanting two people at once; you did not disagree, because you have seen and experienced countless proofs of this statement. What he did not say, and what you certainly _do not_ want to hear, is that he is also capable of loving two people at once. Because he definitely, terrifyingly, loves her.

It is scaring you to death.

You glance at the clock. The evening is dragging on. The fiery colors splattered across the elegant lines of Wilson's back have faded to indigo, violet and grey, and her shadows are blending with his and yours and everything. You fight back the urge to roll over her, _through_ her, and into him, pulling him against your body until it is just the two of you in this bed. But that is not the way it is, because it is not the way he wants it, no matter what he tells you when your mouth is around his aching cock or you are filling him and moving slowly. She is here at his request, even if all he seems to see is you.

Even as seconds and minutes and hours tick away, bleeding with them seconds and minutes and hours of your life, his life, all life, you cannot bring yourself to rouse him from post-coital slumber to discuss these things pawing their way through your mind. Something in you screams urgency, but one glance at her lithe and sprawling body, taking up all the room and air and love between you, and your lips clamp shut over discussions and ultimatums. Amber flicks you an enigmatic, empowered glance, and you roll over to face the wall.

You tried to bring this up once, the last time you and Wilson were together. She was not present—it was your night with him, carefully negotiated in blood and manipulation—and as you pressed him into the kitchen counter and raked your nails lightly down his back, you suggested that the elephant in the room was blonde and fond of stealing sweatshirts, trying to phrase it delicately—at least for you. He jerked away from you so quickly that you nearly fell to the floor and broke something…and the look on his face suggested something was broken, anyway. He intimated that his relationship with Amber was not open for discussion, and you shut up, for once, if not forever. You watched him leave your apartment with mixed feelings and unquenched desire, and spent the rest of the night salvaging the fragile pieces of your ego and something softer that felt crushed.

Since then, you have been unfailingly polite about the issue, except when you cannot manage it. He says he does not blame you, not even for your careless words, but you suspect it is the guilt you see shining in his eyes that is speaking, and not a so-called love. You are both trying too hard to pretend everything is all right, and it only emphasizes the lies in which you both are drowning.

Sometimes, when the two of you sit side by side on the couch, watching a film, your fingers barely touching, you study the air above his head. You want to see his thoughts spelled out and encased in a crudely drawn bubble: a cartoon Wilson whose nature precludes secrets and unspoken things, whose motivations and emotions you can understand again, as you used to before you surrendered your bodies and walled off your hearts even more thoroughly. But he is still human and inscrutable, and the heaviness of everything you are hiding from him makes your body ache.

Amber shifts behind you, reminding you of her presence, and then the warm length of her body presses up against you, collarbones to knees. You feel the softness of her breasts against your shoulder blades, and she blatantly drapes her thigh over yours, the heat of her center obvious against your buttocks. You suspect she feels left out, with Wilson sleeping and you lost in your own thoughts, but this is not your fault, not exactly. None of this was your idea, at least not yours alone. There is nothing you can do for her to make her feel as if she belongs here, with you, with him. Maybe once—but you shove that thought as far from your brain as possible, along with the sweetness of her scent and the secret deliciousness of her uncovered skin. Sometimes Wilson describes these things to you as you drive deeply inside him, and it feels as though you are sharing her, even as she watches from a distance. He does not share. You do not share.

The time for maybes and possibilities has died, and with it, all potential for true happiness. But you are not surprised. In your life, it really could not be any other way.

You do not blame yourself for the distance between you and Wilson created by her body and her eyes, her presence and the memory of it, even when she is absent. You do not blame him, either. There is no clear answer to the dilemma of this inadvertent threesome. If you were enough for him, at least one ex- Mrs. Wilson would never have gotten her shot at marrying a handsome Jewish doctor. You have never been enough…and so here you are, with Wilson and Amber and endless, unalleviated blackness. Even his breathless, needy moans and the slap of your flesh against his do not bring light, or lightness.

The clock tells you that a few hours have gone by now since Wilson passed out, breathing your name, and Amber slipped between you to wind herself around your weary but insatiate bodies in turn. You breathe in the departure of twilight and the descent of darkness, and breathe out silent wishes and regrets. She feels heavier against you; at the same time, she seems less substantial as you turn in her arms to face her. Perhaps, if you finally speak, if you analyze this strangeness enough, the rays of morning light will steal her away, leaving only a scent and a shadow.

_Amber_, you whisper, and Wilson stirs. She lifts an eyebrow, as if to say, _are you going to do this now?_ You do not bother to answer. There is no other time. It is now or never.

_What did you say? _he murmurs sleepily, and you peer at him over her lightly freckled shoulder, taking in the dark hollows of his eyes and the sweet fullness of his mouth. You want to see these things every night and morning in your bed, instead of only when the pain or the passion becomes too great to ignore and you fall together, like glowing planets caught hopelessly in one another's orbits.

You know that, if you can do this, if you can say this—if you can finally dispel Amber and her ghost—there can be more. There has to be more.

_She's here,_ you tell him, and watch his eyes widen, instantly awake. _Can't you feel it? It's never just you and me._

His breath catches on a gasp, and you second-guess this idea. _What the hell are you talking about?_

You smooth your hand over her hair in your mind, and she is smiling sweetly, sadly. She is omniscient in her removal from life, and seems to know where your story will end, and how. _You said you don't blame me, but you do. You haven't really forgiven me. And when you end up here, time after time, I can feel you wishing I was her. It's disconcerting, to say the least._

He rears back from you, scrambling to the edge of the bed, his face creased in fear and agony. _I don't want to talk about this._

You gesture to her, even though by now you are certain she is only in your mind, and not in his—not like this, at least. _We're never alone. You're still fucking her in your memories._

Wilson goes pale, and you realize, suddenly, that this is it. You never should have spoken, never should have told him what you can sense and feel and see. He will walk out of here and never come back, and you will be left with the dubious sanity of her bright blue eyes. He swallows hard, and you can see him reliving a request, a realization, a farewell, and then another. While you lay clinging to life, time crept in and stole away another, better loved. But now, it is only you who is living with her ghost.

_You don't feel it?_ You try to make him understand, desperate. _You don't see her, still between us, even now that she's gone?_ But he is backing away from you now, fumbling for clothing, his face a cacophony of horror and shock.

_I don't know what you're talking about,_ he proclaims, his voice trembling. _I've grieved her. When I'm with you—I'm with _you. But something in his face says _and this will be the last time, because you are living in a past I cannot face._

You watch him grab the doorknob, his shoulders shaking and his back studiously turned to you to hide his emotion. When he turns, his face is a carefully constructed blank. _I think you have some things to work through. Maybe I'm not the one who needs to forgive you, now. I'll see you later._ He walks away, and it is only her, her hand cool and delicate against your cheek, her eyes a wash of understanding and carefully veiled triumph.

You thought it was now or never, and decided on now. Too late, you realize it should have been never. Your front door closes with a fatalistic click, and you sink into the bed and allow her to wrap herself around you, even though she will never be the one you want.

The clock ticks away the seconds, minutes, hours, in an arrhythmic pattern with the beating of your heart. You listen, and concentrate, and will the beating to stop, and leave only the passage of time.

* * *

END


End file.
